Spirit Pact Hundred Scenes Record

Chapter 1 The Scribe of Dustlight Town

The distinctive stale smell of parchment, mixed with fine dust and the slightly acidic ink, constitutes the unchanging atmosphere of the archives.

Karen Everett sat in a high-backed wooden chair by the window, her quill pen moving smoothly in her hand, making a soft rustling sound. The afternoon sun slanted in through the arched window, casting dappled shadows on the stone floor. Countless dust particles swirled and floated slowly in the beams of light, as if guided by some invisible rhythm.

His pen was tracing the third paragraph on page 72 of "The Illustrated Guide to the Creatures of the North, Volume Three":

"...The Lightwing Lion is a rare spiritual creature that inhabits the 'Light Cloud Layer' high in the sky. Adult individuals can have a wingspan of up to five meters, and their entire bodies are covered in golden fur, with wings formed from pure light spiritual energy. Its roar can dispel shadows, and its blood has a slight purifying property. According to records, the last time a successful contract was formed with a human was 237 years ago during the 'Battle of the Cloud Peaks,' and the contractor was..."

The pen paused slightly at this point.

Cheers from outside the window poured in without warning.

The sound initially resembled distant tides, gradually becoming clearer and louder, eventually coalescing into a deafening roar that penetrated the thick stone walls and tightly closed oak doors of the archives. Cheers mingled with the screams of boys and girls, the shouts of elders, and a deep hum—the unique psionic vibration of the "Resonance Stone" in the town's central square when it was activated.

The "Spiritual Vein Resonance Ceremony" held once every five years.

Karen put down his quill and rubbed his slightly sore wrist. He didn't get up immediately, but carefully scraped the excess ink from the nib against the edge of the inkwell, closed the brass ink cartridge, and then used a ruler to smooth the parchment he was copying. This series of movements was slow and precise, like a ritual.

Then, he turned his head and looked out the window.

The archives were located on the third floor of the town hall, offering a perfect view of a corner of the square. At that moment, the square was already teeming with people. Colorful banners and flags fluttered in the wind as townspeople crowded around the makeshift wooden viewing platform, craning their necks to look towards the center of the square. Children rode on their fathers' shoulders, waving small flags folded from colored paper.

Karen's gaze swept past the crowd and landed on the three-meter-high bluish-gray stone monument in the center of the square.

The surface of the stone tablet was covered with intricate runes, which were now shimmering with a pale blue light. The light alternated rhythmically with each flash, like breathing, eliciting cheers from the crowd. A dozen or so boys, ranging in age from twelve to seventeen, stood around the tablet. They were all dressed in white linen robes specially prepared for the ceremony, their wrists exposed, their expressions ranging from nervous to expectant.

Mayor Barton, who was also the officiant at the ceremony, stood before the stone monument, his white beard fluttering in the wind. He raised his hands high, his voice amplified through the megaphone, resounding throughout the square:

"In the name of the sages of Chenguang Town throughout the ages, and with the ancient will flowing through the spiritual veins of this land as our witness—"

Old Patton's voice was solemn and deep, and the crowd fell silent instantly.

"Today, we witness the birth of a new generation of contractors! May the spiritual veins bless you, may the spirits accept you, and may you together protect the future of this land!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the light on the stone tablet suddenly intensified.

A blue aura spread like ripples, enveloping all the teenagers participating in the ceremony. They closed their eyes, their bodies trembling slightly, as if enduring some invisible pressure. This was the first step of the resonance test: detecting the individual's basic affinity with the spiritual veins.

Karen watched quietly.

His gaze swept over the familiar faces of the boys—the blacksmith's twin brothers, clasping hands and encouraging each other; the tavern owner's daughter, biting her lip to try and remain calm; and Tom, the carpenter's apprentice, the freckled boy who always helped Karen carry her book chest at the market…

A gasp broke the silence.

On the twin brother's right wrist, pale blue lines appeared! The lines initially resembled blood vessels under the skin, but quickly became clear and bright, eventually coalescing into a feather-like pattern that shimmered with a faint light.

"Wind Spirit Pattern! It's a Wind Spirit Pattern!" Cheers erupted from the crowd.

Then, a second, a third… more and more of the boys' wrists lit up with light. Fiery red flame patterns, earthy brown rock-like patterns, clear water droplet patterns, and even rare silver-white crescent patterns. The appearance of each pattern was accompanied by thunderous cheers and congratulations.

Tom's wrist also lit up—it was covered in vibrant green vine patterns, entwined with life. He opened his eyes, stared blankly at his wrist, then grinned, and as he laughed, tears streamed down his face.

Karen's right hand unconsciously went to her wrist.

There, only pale blue veins beneath the skin and a thin layer of calluses formed from years of holding a pen. There were no patterns, no radiance, no signs of resonance with the spiritual veins.

Five years ago, he stood in that square, wearing the same white robe, in front of the same stone monument.

He remembered the excitement of old Patton announcing the start, the warmth of the blue light enveloping his body, and the repeated prayers he made with his eyes closed—praying that, like his father, the "book rune" representing wisdom and knowledge would appear on his wrist. His father had been the best scholar in Dustlight Town and the only person in town to have formed a contract with an "intellectual" spirit.

As the light faded, Karen immediately looked at her wrist.

There was nothing there.

Undeterred, he rubbed vigorously until his skin turned red. One by one, the children around him cheered, but he stood there, his wrist empty. Old Barton walked over, patted him on the shoulder, and said with regret, "Son, some people are born with blocked spiritual channels…it's not your fault."

Those whose spiritual veins are blocked.

Those without pulse.

In a psionic world, this means never being able to form a psionic pact, never being able to become a psionic master, and always being able to stand outside the light, watching others soar through the skies, manipulate the elements, and fight alongside wondrous creatures.

The cheers outside the window reached their climax.

Seven children have already successfully manifested their spirit runes, a remarkable achievement in the history of Dustlight Town. Old Barton, beaming, was reading the list. When his name was called, the boy proudly raised his arm, displaying the runes on his wrist. Their families rushed forward to hug, cry, and laugh.

Karen turned back to face the parchment on the table.

The pen tip fell again, continuing the paragraph that had just been interrupted:

"...The contractor was Edwin Starshine, the seventh Grand Master of the Cloudwing Knights. The contract lasted for twenty-one years, until the Lightwing Lion 'Radiance' perished in the battle against the Abyss's corruption. After that, Grand Master Edwin never formed a new contract and retired three years later. His late-life work, 'A Study of the Behavior of High-Altitude Spirits,' remains the authoritative classic in the field to this day..."

His handwriting remained steady and neat, with each letter's curve perfectly placed. However, upon closer inspection, one could notice an extremely slight tremor at the end of some strokes, as if the person holding the pen had exerted considerable effort to maintain hand stability.

The archive was quiet, save for the sound of pens scratching across parchment and the faint cheers in the distance. This archive held all the documents, records, and copies of ancient books accumulated in Dustlight Town over the past two centuries, as well as some less important academic works. Four rows of floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves stood against the wall, crammed with scrolls wrapped in leather or linen. The air was perpetually thick with dust and the distinctive smell of old paper.

Karen worked here for three years.

After the ley line resonance ritual failed, old Barton gave him two choices: work as a porter in the mines outside town, or become a scribe in the government office. Karen chose the latter—at least there were books to read here.

At first, it was just simple document copying, but later he gradually came into contact with some ancient books. The scholars in town would occasionally come to consult materials, and seeing that Karen's handwriting was neat and his work was meticulous, they would sometimes ask him to help organize the documents. Later, he began to teach himself the basics of paranormal studies, relying on a few notebooks left by his father, and slowly deciphering those obscure professional terms.

Now, he can independently complete the transcription and collation of professional works such as "The Encyclopedia of Northern Creatures". The salary paid to him by the government is barely enough to cover rent and food, but for each volume he completes, he can borrow three additional books from the archives - a condition that Karen negotiated herself.

"At least," he once told himself, "even if I can't become a Spirit Master, I can still understand them."

The cheers outside the window gradually subsided.

The ceremony has entered its final stage: the youths who have successfully manifested their spirit runes will spend the next few months learning basic psychic control, and then, led by the town's old spirit contract masters, will travel to nearby spirit habitats to attempt to establish initial connections with suitable spirits. If all goes well, they will be able to complete their formal contracts and become true spirit contract master apprentices by next spring.

And those who failed...

Karen put down her pen and opened another yellowed booklet beside her. It contained the historical records of Dustlight Town, and she quickly found the page from five years ago:

"In the autumn of Gregorian calendar year 437, the Nether Resonance Ceremony took place. Of the twenty-one participants, nine successfully manifested their Nether Marks, while twelve failed. Among them, Karen Avit (son of the late scholar Reno Avit) was confirmed after three tests to have 'completely closed Nether Channels,' and it was recommended that she be assigned to non-psychic-related work..."

It is recommended to assign non-psychic-related work.

He closed the booklet, his gaze falling on the illustration he was copying—a winged lion meticulously drawn in colored ink: a majestic head, a streamlined body, and wings composed of pure light. The artist's skill was superb; the lion's amber eyes seemed truly alive, gazing at the viewer through the paper.

Karen extended her index finger and gently stroked the wings in the illustration.

He felt the rough texture of the paper against his fingertips, and the slightly raised lines of the ink. He closed his eyes, imagining a real light-winged lion soaring above the clouds: sunlight piercing through its wings, refracting into a rainbow of colors; air currents whistling softly over its fur; and as it swooped down, the whole world unfolded below…

"Bang!"

The door to the archives was suddenly pushed open.

Karen recoiled as if electrocuted, opening her eyes. Entering was Mark, a red-haired boy two years younger than Karen, a handyman from the government office—he had participated in today's ceremony and succeeded. At this moment, a ring of glowing blue lines was wrapped around Mark's right wrist; it was the basic water elemental rune.

"Karen! Did you see that?" Mark waved his arms excitedly, the lines on his wrist flashing with the movement. "I did it! It's a Water Spirit rune! Old Barton said I have a chance to contract a Lake Spirit, or even a small Water Elemental!"

"Congratulations," Karen said with a polite and restrained smile.

Mark, completely oblivious to Karen's expression, rushed to the window and pointed towards the plaza: "Tom has vine markings! Do you know what that means? He can contract with forest spirits! We've made a pact: once I contract a water spirit and he contracts a vine demon, we'll team up for an adventure! Just like the adventurers in the stories!"

"That sounds great," Karen said, picking up her quill pen again.

"It's such a shame you didn't come." Mark turned and leaned against the windowsill. "When the ceremony ended, the light from the Resonance Stone shot into the sky, illuminating the entire plaza! I felt the spiritual veins responding to me; that warm feeling... wow, it's indescribable!"

Karen nodded, her pen tip landing on the parchment, and continued copying the next paragraph.

Mark finally sensed something was off. He scratched his head, the lines on his wrist shifting with the movement. "Uh... I'm here to deliver a message. Old Barton said we're leaving early today so everyone can go to the square for a celebration. Why don't you come? There'll be barbecue and cider, and the band will play until tonight."

"I still have three pages to copy." Karen didn't look up. "You guys go ahead, I'll take a look later."

"Okay..." Mark hesitated for a moment, then turned back at the door. "Karen, um... sorry. I didn't mean to show off."

"I know." Karen finally looked up and gave Mark a genuine smile. "Go, enjoy your moment. You deserve it."

Mark grinned, slammed the door shut, and ran off. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, accompanied by barely suppressed whistling.

The archives returned to silence.

Karen sat there, still holding her pen, motionless for a long time. Sunlight moved slowly through the room, from the desk to the bookshelf, then from the bookshelf to the corner. Music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses drifted from the distant square, sounds indistinct and distant, as if from another world.

Finally, he put down his pen, stood up, and walked to the window.

The celebration had begun. A bonfire was lit in the square, and the townspeople danced around it. The newly minted spirit-wielding youths were surrounded in the center, receiving everyone's blessings. The veteran spirit masters patted them on the shoulder, recounting their adventures from their youth. The air was filled with the aroma of roasted meat and the sweet scent of cider.

Karen's gaze swept past the joyful crowd and landed in the shadows at the edge of the square.

Several boys stood there, dressed in the same white robes as Mark, but with empty wrists. They huddled together, talking in hushed tones, occasionally glancing up at the joyous scene in the center of the square before quickly looking down again. One of the girls was wiping away tears, and the boy next to her awkwardly patted her shoulder.

Those without pulse.

Karen recognized most of them. The tailor's daughter, the baker's son, and the always taciturn shepherd boy... Now, they, like him, belonged to another world.

He left the window, returned to the table, and began to tidy up his things.

He put the quill back in its holder, capped the ink bottle, and weighed down the unfinished parchment with a paperweight. He took out another book he had borrowed that day from the drawer—an academic notebook about ancient spiritual runes, authored by "Reno Evert," his own father.

With the book tucked under her arm, Karen blew out the oil lamp on the table.

The archives were dimly lit, with only the twilight outside the window providing some illumination. He locked the door, descended the spiral stone steps, walked through the deserted corridor of the government office, and left the building through a side door.

The clamor of the celebration was left behind. Karen walked along the cobblestone path to the edge of town, where he rented a small attic. Occasionally, he would encounter a few drunken townspeople who walked by, talking and laughing loudly, without noticing the young scribe walking with his head down.

Back in the attic, Karen lit the candles on the table and opened her father's book.

The pages were yellowed and the edges were curled, covered with my father's meticulous handwriting. These notes were mostly about research on various rare spiritual rune variants, some accompanied by simple sketches, and some were copies of correspondence with other scholars. My father had spent his life researching a topic: whether the closure of spiritual veins was truly unchangeable.

Karen turned to the marked page:

"...Traditional theory holds that the closure of spiritual veins is a congenital defect that cannot be changed throughout life. However, I have found several records in ancient scrolls mentioning that 'major shocks' or 'extreme emotional fluctuations' can temporarily open closed spiritual veins, manifesting temporary spiritual patterns. This phenomenon lasts for a few breaths at most, and no longer than a day, and afterwards the spiritual veins will close again, or even suffer more damage..."

The candle flame flickered gently, casting swaying shadows on the pages of the book.

Karen's fingers traced the words, imagining her father writing them: a study late at night, his focused profile under the lamplight, the soft scratching of a quill pen on paper... Her father never gave up searching for hope for him, until that accident took everything away.

Outside the attic window, the music from the celebratory banquet could still be faintly heard.

Karen closed the book, blew out the candle, and lay down in the darkness. He closed his eyes, his right hand unconsciously pressing against his left chest—where a pendant he never parted with hung, a silver chain with a small, warm white jade pendant on its surface, its surface bearing naturally formed fine lines, like some kind of unfinished pattern.

This was the last thing his father left him.

"No matter what happens, don't take it off." That's what her father said then, his eyes filled with a complex emotion Karen had never seen before—worry, anticipation, and a hint of...fear?

Outside the window, cheers rose again, probably because the banquet had reached its climax.

Karen rolled over and held the pendant in her palm. The jade emanated a constant, gentle warmth, pulsating as if it were alive, gradually synchronizing with her own heartbeat.

On the verge of falling asleep, the last thing that came to his mind was the amber eyes of the winged lion in the encyclopedia.

So beautiful, so far away.

Never to be reached.

---

Thirty miles outside of Dustlight Town, three black iron-colored shuttle-shaped airships were silently cutting through the clouds, their pale white flame emblems gleaming coldly in the twilight.

They had a clear course, heading straight for the town immersed in joy.